TAME AN OLDER MAN Page 8

  Elise and Frannie listened with rapt expressions, smiling slightly. "He sounds like he really is the paragon his grandparents make him out to be," Elise said.

  "He's okay," Phoebe finished lamely.

  Elise gave her a knowing look. "You're not telling us something."

  "What wouldn't I be telling you?" Phoebe asked, but her studied nonchalance obviously didn't fool Elise.

  "Like maybe you have a thing for him? Daisy said he has one for you."

  "Daisy's been inhaling too much pottery glaze."

  "Methinks the lady doth protest too—"

  "I do not!"

  Frannie ended the semi-heated discussion by grabbing an arm from both Elise and Phoebe. "Oh, my gosh, Bill's coming. Hide me."

  "Hide you?" Elise and Phoebe said together.

  "I look too fat in this bathing suit!"

  Phoebe gave Frannie a once-over. She wore a one-piece suit with a skirt, and it had pictures of—what else?—cats all over it. "Frannie, you have a very cute figure and you look great in that suit."

  "Remember what Jane Jasmine says," Elise reminded Frannie, as Bill came closer, strolling along with his toolbox and whistling tunelessly. "'No matter what size or shape you are, be proud of it.'"

  "She's probably a size two!" Frannie groused. But when Bill waved jauntily to the women, Frannie smiled and waved back. "Hi, Bill. Did you get a chance to look at my car?"

  "Oh, yeah, Frannie. It was just a loose wire. All fixed."

  Frannie batted her eyelashes and pushed her chest out a bit. "I just don't know what I'd do without your help. I'm so hopeless when it comes to anything mechanical."

  "My pleasure." Bill tipped his baseball cap, then continued on his way.

  "Frannie!" Elise scolded. "Stop playing dumb with him. Men don't fall for that helpless act anymore."

  "Oh, rats, I keep forgetting. That's what I did when I was a girl, and old habits are hard to break."

  Elise gave Frannie's shoulders a squeeze. "It's okay. I think Bill's pretty smitten no matter what you do."

  "But he does like it when I'm more self-sufficient. I changed my own air-conditioning filters the other day, and he was so proud of me I thought his shirt buttons would pop off."

  "See?" Phoebe said. "It's the ones who want you to be helpless and dumb you have to watch out for." And she'd encountered plenty of that type. In fact, she seemed to attract that type.

  Even Wyatt sometimes talked down to her. He treated her like she had a mind of her own. Oh, he respected her skill, even if she was just a lowly makeup artist. But he over-explained things.

  How would he feel, she wondered, if he knew her true career aspirations? What would he think about kissing a future biochemist who planned to manufacture cosmetics instead of put them on other people's faces?

  Her fellow students and her professors treated her differently than most people. Though she'd gotten her share of stares her first semester, her study buddies now treated her like an intellectual equal—something new and refreshing for Phoebe. But Wyatt already knew her on a safe, nonthreatening level. Would he go weird on her if he found out she was brainy? Elise had warned her that some men were intimidated by an intelligent woman, and that she ought to be prepared for it.

  "Yo, Zombie Woman," Elise said.

  Phoebe snapped back to attention. She'd been zoning out.

  "You'd better put some sunscreen on."

  She swam laps, instead, hoping that if she worked her body hard enough, she would banish her hopeless thoughts regarding Wyatt Madison.

  * * *

  At 11:10 on Friday, Wyatt found Phoebe predictably packing up her cosmetics, preparing for her flight.

  He leaned in through the doorway. "The whole crew is heading to Vito's for lunch in a few minutes," he said. "It's kind of a tradition, our version of a staff meeting. I hope you can join us."

  She looked up, her regret obvious. "I really wish I could, but I've got plans."

  "You can't rearrange them, just this once?" he prodded.

  She shook her head. "Maybe next Friday I can. Now that I know it's important. My schedule isn't very flexible, but with some advance notice I can usually manage."

  "Oh, that reminds me," Wyatt said. "Kelly has to take next Friday off, so we're taping Friday's show on Wednesday afternoon. Is that a problem?"

  Phoebe looked almost stricken. "All afternoon?"

  "We'll probably be done by three. But then you can take Friday off."

  "You might want to look around for a substitute makeup artist," she said. "I'll see what I can arrange and let you know Monday, but afternoons are a problem."

  "What keeps you so busy in the afternoon?" he asked, keeping his tone light and playful. "Hot date?"

  She smiled. "Nothing like that." She glanced at her watch. "I really have to go. Sorry I can't join the group for lunch."

  "That's okay. I'll brief you later. I did promise when I hired you that the hours were regular, so I guess I can't renege on that now."

  "I appreciate that." She closed and locked her case, picked it up as if it were nothing—and he knew it weighed a ton—and brushed past him out of the dressing room. His body immediately reacted to her nearness, her fresh floral scent, but she seemed oblivious. "'Bye, have a nice weekend."

  That sounded as if she didn't plan on seeing or talking to him until Monday, which irritated him no end. Where did she run off to every day? The mystery was driving him crazy.

  Impulsively, he raced to Phyllis's office and stuck his head in the door. "I can't come to Vito's today."

  She looked surprised. He ducked out before she could voice an objection, then headed for the parking lot. He reached the exit just in time to see Phoebe climbing into a cute compact car.

  He knew he was acting nuts, but he couldn't help it. He ducked behind a row of cars so she wouldn't see him, then tucked and ran to his own car and jumped in. He started it up and backed out, waited until he saw which direction Phoebe headed, then followed.

  He tailed her for twenty minutes. She was heading out of town, through the suburb of Tempe. His imagination ran wild. Maybe she had a secret double life: a husband and kids somewhere who thought she spent all her time visiting a sick grandmother in Phoenix. Maybe she was an exotic dancer in some out-of-the-way club. Maybe she was visiting a drug treatment center, kicking a coke habit.

  Or maybe— His appalling speculations came to a screeching halt when Phoebe's car turned into the main entrance of the Arizona State University campus. She was visiting a college? What on earth for? Was she selling Avon products to co-eds, maybe cutting and styling hair in the dorms for extra money? She'd said she didn't have another job, but maybe she was afraid Wyatt would want her to work exclusively for his show if he found out about her extracurricular activities.

  He followed her, as she wove her way down this drive and that, finally parking in a hot that required a blue sticker, which her car seemed to have. So this was someplace she belonged.

  Since he didn't have a parking permit, he pulled his Jag under a tree in a No Parking zone. He would only be here a minute, he reasoned. He watched as Phoebe climbed out of her car, lugging what looked like a heavy backpack, and headed for the entrance of the nearest building, which was the library.

  A tall, thin young man with thick glasses greeted her on the library steps. She gave him a quick hug—more a shoulder squeeze, really—then they both sat down on the steps. He had a backpack, too—which seemed to be standard issue on this campus; every kid who walked past had one. He opened his pack and pulled out two paper-wrapped items, then handed one to her. It was a sandwich. The two of them chatted and ate lunch. Phoebe opened her pack, pulled out two bottles of something, and handed one to the kid.

  So, Wyatt thought, supremely disappointed, his first instinct had been right. Phoebe had a boyfriend, some possibly underage kid she wanted to keep secret. From what he knew about Phoebe, her choice didn't make much sense. She was a TV star, a completely gorgeous woman who could probably attract
any guy in the world just by crooking her little finger. He didn't even eliminate himself; if she even half tried, she could have him. She'd bent him completely out of shape with no effort at all.

  So why was she involved with some zit-faced kid who hadn't even finished school?

  "Wait a minute…" He leaned back between the seats until he found what he was looking for—the copy of 2001 Ways to Wed Phyllis had loaned him. He hadn't done much more than scan through it, but even so he'd been impressed with the common-sense, down-to-earth advice Ms. Jasmine gave her readers. She appeared to understand how men's thought processes worked. Although she wasn't above using a trick or two to meet men, she was against using any kind of subterfuge once a woman had a man's attention. Instead of advising women to trick men into marriage, she encouraged her readers to simply understand what men wanted.

  He flipped through the book again, finally locating the chapter he thought he remembered seeing: "Lessons in Love: Get an Education." Most worthwhile men, Jane advised, liked a woman who could think. By pursuing educational avenues that interested her, whether it was history or computer science, a woman could double her chances of meeting the right man. First, she was improving herself, and second, she was expanding her base of friends and acquaintances.

  Apparently Phoebe had taken Jane's advice to heart. He wondered what kind of class she might be taking. He didn't think Arizona State offered cosmetology classes, but he could be wrong. Maybe PE, he speculated. Something was keeping her body in unbelievable condition.

  When he saw a campus police car headed his way, he put his Jag in gear and pulled away. He'd seen enough. If she was trolling college campuses for a husband, it was none of his business. He would simply put it out of his mind. He wouldn't think about Phoebe again until he saw her Monday morning.

  But he found he couldn't dismiss her from his thoughts so easily. What was she thinking? If she was intent on robbing the cradle, at least she could pick a good-looking, studly student, one who would measure up to her in the looks department.

  Obviously Phoebe needed some relationship advice. He was older and wiser than she; he'd been in relationships good and bad, he'd seen friends fall in love, get married, get divorced. He could give her some much-needed guidance, before she did something stupid like marry some totally inappropriate guy just because she craved a white picket fence.

  Besides, it was in his best interest to keep her happy and well grounded. She was his employee. He depended on her to show up every day, focused and ready to work. So far she'd done that, but who knew what would happen next week if Joe College threw her over? He felt suddenly quite paternal toward Phoebe, very protective. Though it might not be pleasant, he was obligated to sit her down and talk sense into her. Tonight, if possible.

  * * *

  Phoebe had never been so happy to see the weekend. Three mid-term exams in one week was hellish; five straight days of working with Wyatt had been more than enough to fray her nerves.

  Tonight, she thought as she pulled into the Mesa Blue parking lot, she would order a pizza, put on her jammies, climb into bed and watch old movies…

  The sight of Wyatt's Jag in its spot distracted her for a moment, but then she chastised herself for letting such a little thing bother her. The man did live here, at least temporarily. He had a right to relax at home on the weekend. Anyway, what were the chances she would run into him? The whole first week he'd lived at Mesa Blue she'd hardly glimpsed him.

  Her optimism was dashed as she stopped in the elegant lobby to collect her mail. She said hello to the security guard, put her key into her mailbox, then sensed a presence approaching from behind—the unmistakable aura of Wyatt Madison.

  "Hey, Phoebe."

  He sounded pretty cheerful. She guessed that meant he wasn't as hot and bothered around her as she was around him. She glanced over at him. He was still in his work clothes, apparently just getting home from the station. He had a plastic grocery sack, which he'd set down by his feet.

  "Hello, Wyatt. How's your house-hunting going?"

  "Haven't had much time for looking, but I'm supposed to go out with the real estate agent tomorrow."

  He didn't sound too enthused. "Did you talk to Elise about buying her unit?" she asked, then wanted to bite her tongue. All she needed was for Wyatt to move into Mesa Blue permanently. Having him living next door for a few weeks was making her tense enough.

  "I did, but she won't be ready to sell until the fall. My grandparents love me, but I don't think they'll want me underfoot for that long. Oh, look, here's a postcard from them. Greece."

  "I have one, too!" Phoebe announced, holding up the colorful card of Athens. "How sweet of them to think of me." She turned it over and read aloud:

  "'Dear Phoebe, we're having a wonderful time. I hope you and Wyatt are getting along. Please remind him to water the plants on the balcony and talk to the cactus. Love, Rolland and Helen.'" She turned to him. "Wyatt, water the plants on the balcony and talk to the cactus."

  He laughed, then read his card. "Mine says, 'Dearest Wyatt, we're having a wonderful time. If you're having any problems settling in, please ask Phoebe. She knows everything. Don't forget to water the plants and talk to the cactus—'"

  "What's the deal with the cactus?" Phoebe asked. "I know Helen loves her plants, but I never heard her talk to them before."

  "She bought some new ones just before the trip, a couple of cacti. The lady who sold them to her said they would bloom if she talked nice to them."

  Phoebe laughed. "I'm sorry I interrupted. What else does the card say?"

  "That's it, just 'Love, Grammy and Granddad.'"

  "You call Helen 'Grammy'?" She couldn't suppress a chuckle at the thought of big, macho Wyatt calling anybody "Grammy."

  "What's wrong with that? What do you call your grandmother?"

  Phoebe sighed. "I never knew either of them. One lived in Denmark, so I never met her. The other I didn't see after my parents split up when I was a baby. But she remembered me. She left me her condo when she died."

  "I'm sorry. I forgot for a minute that you'd lost your grandmother. I shouldn't have been so glib."

  Phoebe shrugged, wishing she'd never brought up the subject of grandmothers. She'd always regretted that she hadn't made an effort to see her father's mother before the woman died. Her grandmother had sent an occasional letter, and usually a card with a few dollars tucked inside on Phoebe's birthday, and Phoebe had dutifully sent thank-you notes, but her mother hadn't encouraged communication even though her grandmother had obviously wanted it. Olga's bitterness toward her ex-husband colored her thinking.

  Still, Phoebe had no business unloading any personal stuff onto Wyatt.

  And he didn't have to be so damn sympathetic. It just made her like him more, and she didn't need any more reasons to be attracted to him. Wrong time, wrong man, she reminded herself.

  "How was lunch?" she asked brightly, changing the subject.

  He didn't answer right away.

  "Was it that hard a question?" As she sorted through her bills, she peeked at him from the corner of her eye. He really did seem to be having trouble answering.

  "Lunch was fine," he said carefully. "But some things did come up, and I need to talk to you about them."

  Uh-oh. "You're not pleased with my job performance?"

  "No, oh, you're doing a great job, Phoebe. You have a real talent for making people look their best on camera."

  "Thanks."

  "But I do need to talk to you."

  "Now?"

  "I know it's been a long week, but I want to … go over a few things while they're fresh in my mind. It won't take long, I promise." He reached into the plastic bag at his feet, pulled out a package of something, then shook it invitingly at her. "Gourmet coffee?"

  Sure enough, it was a half-pound of Jamaican Blue Mountain, her favorite kind. She could smell it.

  "I thought you didn't drink coffee."

  "I don't, but I got some to have on hand for guests."
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  For sleep-over guests, she added. A non-coffee-drinker didn't spring for Jamaican Blue Mountain unless he was trying to impress someone. Could that someone possibly be her?

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  « ^ »

  Her old movies could wait, Phoebe decided. Though on principle she didn't like employers to monopolize her free time, Wyatt was paying her a ridiculously high salary for part-time work, so she couldn't begrudge him an occasional after-hours meeting. After all, she had skipped the staff lunch meeting today.

  "I'll be over in a few minutes," she said, feeling a small surge of energy mixed with something akin to dread. It wasn't that she didn't like Wyatt. She did, probably too much. The idea that he'd bought that coffee for her … well, it was just nice, that was all, and it made her want to please him.

  But he made her tense. Since that kiss, the desire had crackled between them whenever they were within twenty feet of each other. She would have to let that go, she decided. Surely it was simply a matter of their getting more accustomed to each other.

  Phoebe changed into comfortable clothes, filed her mail and listened to her phone messages. She wasn't too surprised to get a panicky-sounding message from her mother. Olga considered it a major crisis if she broke a nail, and she called Phoebe almost every day in a tizzy over something or other.

  "Addy, call me right away!" Olga said breathlessly. She never called Phoebe by her "Hollywood" name, even though Olga was the one who'd encouraged Adelaide Phelps to morph into Phoebe Lane

  . "I have to talk to you."

  Phoebe shook her head and rewound the tape. She would call Olga back once she got done with Wyatt.

  When she stepped out her front door a few minutes later, the coffee was already brewing at Wyatt's. She could smell it all the way down the hall, and it drew her in like a siren song.

  Wyatt let her in, and she immediately took note of his own casual attire—jeans faded almost to white and another T-shirt. Had she actually tried to tell herself she didn't like those clothes on him? He looked so approachable. Huggable. She almost wished for another broken pipe so she could see that T-shirt clinging to every muscle—